


does it trouble your mind (the way you trouble mine)

by Fictropes



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tennis, Anxiety, Depression, M/M, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Tennis Player Dan, coach Phil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:22:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28840080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fictropes/pseuds/Fictropes
Summary: “Phil…?”“Lester.”“Oh.” Dan murmurs. “Never heard of him.”(or that tennis au i've been threatening to write since 1801.)
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Comments: 94
Kudos: 87





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i know you will all want to kill me for starting another wip, but I have literally wanted to write this for YEARS and it's all i think about. liek i think about writing this instead of writing my other wips that are liek 5 chaps in... so maybe if I get this fic out my system i will actually be able to continue the others ones LOL
> 
> WILL update every monday :D (thanks sierra for beta'ing!)

Dan spends too much time watching people, stares out of coffee shop windows and thinks about how it’d feel to just become someone else. They all have their own lives that Dan isn’t privy to, but he really wishes he was. Maybe then he could make a fucking decision about who he wants to be. The balding man rushing past with a briefcase in hand, the blond woman stood feeding the pigeons, the baby in the pram who doesn’t yet understand the horrors of life.

Maybe if he were born to different parents, maybe if he’d been born in a different place, maybe if—maybe. It doesn’t matter. People can look happy, but that doesn’t mean that they are. The lady at the fountain is wearing yellow, and all Dan can think about is Van Gogh. Wonders if she’s realised eating yellow paint is bad, but wearing yellow might be alright—might work. 

Now he’s just projecting, now he’s reading into everything too much. But maybe if he imagines everyone’s life is just as miserable as his own, it’ll make him feel better. 

Someone asks if he’s finished with his cup, and it makes Dan jump. He’s been here for forty-five minutes now, which means he’s late. Because he’s always late. Because late means having to spend less time with the people who think he’s just being dramatic, who think he just wanted a bit of publicity. 

He offers a smile, but it barely reaches his eyes. Off-putting, is what most people would call it. It’s what his coach called it, what his ex called it, what all the newspapers called it. Dan’s off-putting. _His smile is never a smile, and he’s always dead behind the eyes._ The barista smiles back, and Dan thinks their smile is just as flat as his.

But that makes sense, because Dan practically lives here—the baristas don’t have to pretend that this job thrills them. This little coffee shop is a home away from home, filled with all the makings of something that could make Dan happy—if he let himself be. It’s cozy, everyone treats him nicely, the coffee is good and the seat next to the fireplace always seems to be waiting for him. 

Letting himself be happy is difficult, though. Maybe if his life were more private, maybe if people weren’t constantly waiting to catch him out he could smile, he could laugh more freely, skip through the streets if the urge ever took him. But he can’t, because one photo of him looking anything less than utterly depressed starts up everything all over again. 

_Was Daniel Howell’s breakdown staged? Is Daniel Howell trying to garner the sympathy of the British Public? Is Daniel Howell just not cut out for this?_

The fireplace is warm, and Dan thinks it’s probably some sort of public safety hazard. One day some people will come marching in and shut it down, take away the only place where Dan doesn’t feel like he’s drowning. 

“God, here. Look like you could use it.” 

There’s a slice of cake on the table in front of him, all chocolate. 

“Thanks, but—training. Don’t wanna throw up half-way through a serve.” 

Kev picks it up, but he comes back with it in a takeaway box. 

“Then for after, I feel like you could still use it after.” His tone is insistent, and so is the way he’s gently nudging the white polystyrene into Dan’s upper arm. 

Dan does smile this time, feels safe in here to do so. “Thanks.”

And maybe him and Kev could be something, maybe all the free food and the small touches mean more than Dan cares to admit. The way his eyes light up when the bell above the door tinkles tells Dan if he wanted something he could have it. But he doesn’t think he wants it, at least not with Kev.

Kev who is kind, but insistently so. Sometimes Dan wants to scream, tell him that forcing someone into happiness isn’t actually real happiness at all. But he likes it here too much to fall out with a member of staff, to limit the amount of times he can come in as he desperately tries to avoid the times Kev is scheduled to work. 

Then again, maybe Dan is reading into it. He’s always been told he’s got a big head, thinks too highly of himself, should ask that therapist for some tips on how to be modest. It’s sort of his public persona at this point, and he’s too detached from that world to care. People can think about him in whatever way they please— it doesn’t matter— Dan’s probably still going to sob into his pillow when nighttime rolls around. 

“Got any big—what’re they called? Games? Matches?” Kev asks, and he’s now taken the seat opposite Dan. Sat with his legs crossed, and his trouser leg has hitched up just enough that Dan can see a tattoo of a rose on his ankle. He’s never noticed it before, and it feels good to pay attention to others because that means he can pay less attention to himself. 

“Whatever you want, can call it ball hitting time.” Dan’s trying to be funny, but it lands on the table awkwardly. There’s not enough spark in the tone, not enough light in his eyes to pull it off. 

But bless him, bless Kev who smiles through the pain. He is pretty, Dan thinks. Shorter than him, lip ring, hair styled in that way he’d have died for back in 2009. He’s oddly delicate, and Dan’s not in the mood to break anyone. He’s done that too many times before, and he’s found that breaking is much easier than fixing.

“Sounds painful.” Kev smiles, laying the box between them as a gesture of peace—even though Dan never thought there was a war to begin with. “You flying off soon?”

“Dunno.” Dan shrugs. “Might go to Australia, if they’ll let me.”

“They will.” Kev assures, because he doesn’t understand. “You’re amazing, you’re too good for them to refuse.”

And Dan wants to say it’s not about being good anymore, but instead he picks up his cake and leaves. 

-

He walks to the courts instead of doing what he should do, which is getting a train or calling a taxi. Because he’s already late, he’s already wasted everyone’s time. But he doesn’t care, he doesn’t want to go there at all, he wants to crawl back to his flat and lay beneath the covers until the world doesn’t seem so off its axis. 

Today isn't his worst day, not by a long shot. Just something off about it, something that makes him think he should have stayed in bed. He’s paranoid, that’s it, scared everyone is staring at him. All of them laser focused and waiting for Dan to mess up, to slip up, to recreate what he did on the tennis court in the middle of the street. 

He dips inside a corner store, desperately needs something to suck on. Oddly enough the sound of a hard sweet rattling around in his mouth, clacking against his teeth, is enough to momentarily stop him from listening to all the noise going on in his own head. Background noise is vital, soothes him in a way the silence can’t. This current method is weird, but it works, and he’s desperate enough to accept anything at this point.

He leaves the shop, and maybe people aren’t staring at him. 

London is home, but it’s never actually felt like it. Everything about it feels too big, like there’s something lurking around every corner, and that something wants to hurt him. But, in the entire opposite way that’s a comfort. It’s big enough to get lost in, big enough that he’s just another person amongst millions. 

He can’t work it out, and he doesn’t think he ever will. 

London is safe, but it’s still a place that’s hurt him more than anywhere else. 

The flowers lining the park are pretty, but the teenage boys sat on the benches are threatening in a way that makes Dan lower his gaze as he walks by. The trees are nice, but the grass around them is covered in broken glass. The lake is calm, but the bird trapped in a plastic bag that someone’s tossed away is distressing. 

Dan kneels down, too close to the edge despite all the signs around warning him to keep a distance. He needs to help, he needs to feel less like the monster he thinks he is. And is that selfish? Does that make him more of what all the papers say? No, he’d help this animal out even if were feeling happier, even if today wasn’t an off day. 

“Hey, hey.” He soothes, and maybe this is who he really is. “I’ve got you, don’t worry.” 

And the bird stops flapping its wings so violently, seems to understand that it’s safe now. Dan gently unwraps the plastic from where it’s tangled, discards it on the path next to him to make sure his new friend is alright. The bird lets out a nose, mallard, Dan thinks. Which means it’s a duck, not a bird, and Dan suddenly feels stupid all over again. 

Or maybe ducks and birds are the same thing. 

He’s so late. 

He watches as the duck swims off, leaving a trail of rippling water in its wake. He’s done the right thing, he thinks, when he watches it join up with a family. Another duck, and a bunch of ducklings. 

He’s late, but he’s got an excuse. 

The bag gets put in the bin where it should’ve been all along. 

He can see the courts from where he’s stood, can see that they’re all in use because they’d given up on waiting for Dan to show. They don’t even try calling to see where he is anymore. They just assume the worst, and maybe it’s better that way. Then Dan can stop trying all together, because no one is expecting him to try anyway. 

But he’d tried today, hadn’t he? Late but here. Saved a duck. Put some rubbish in the bin. Even said more than one word to Kev. He puts another sweet in his mouth, and the noise makes him walk forwards. 

He’s not old, twenty-nine is nothing. But in the tennis world he’s ancient, at least he is with his track record. There’s no hope for him now, if he was going to be anything he would’ve become it already. He had a brief fling with success, won something important because it was a _good_ day. His head was free of all the usual fog, allowed him to really move, really play like he’s always been able to but never quite could when placed in-front of a crowd. 

Because the fog weighs him down, the fog makes him slower, makes his racket feel heavier. And it’s not something Dan can turn on and off, as much as he wishes he could. He’s progressed over the years, and the fog is less dense but it’s still there and it still affects everything he does. The brief moments of clarity, the times he can actually see clearly, almost feel mocking at this point— _look what your life could be like._

His manager is stood waiting at the usual spot. She’s—pissed off. That’s obvious. Dan thinks he deserves it, for being such a twat. She’s never done anything wrong, and he keeps forgetting that. When his head decides everyone is against him, it really hones in on the _everyone._

_  
  
_“Sorry.”

“Save it.” Mandy says, and Dan feels fucking miniscule. “He’s gone, by the way. Says he’s not doing it anymore. So, what’s that, five coaches now?” 

She’s striding off ahead of him, heel of her boots slamming against the tiles. It takes Dan a second to catch up, to try and grovel. She’ll forgive him, because she always does. But that’s probably not fair, Dan shouldn’t expect that of other people. 

“You look nice today.” He tries, but he means it. She always looks nice, put together. A different set of interesting earrings in every time he sees her, but her hair always the same—red and perfectly straight. 

“Don’t. Can’t be arsed, Dan.” But she still holds the door open for him anyway. “What was so bad about this one?”

Dan doesn’t know where they’re going, just follows along like a lost sheep because he needs her to like him again. There’s so few people in his life that actually do, or at least know who he _actually_ is and still do. Mandy is loyal, stuck by his side through everything and the last thing Dan wants to do is accidentally push her away.

“I am, you know, sorry. I know—none of this is your fault, you’re not them.”

“No, I’m not, so maybe you could text me instead of having me sit there for nearly an hour.” She’s angry, but it’s softer now. Her face isn’t as twisted, the fire in her eyes has burnt out. It’s more tiredness than anger now, and Dan really has to tread carefully to avoid losing her. 

“I know.” Dan agrees, because he does know. There’s no point trying to argue and twist this, he’d fucked up. “I will.”

There’s silence then, nothing awkward but Dan still feels the need to fill it. To be honest, because keeping everything chained up inside himself doesn’t work. Hasn’t worked for a long time. He takes a steadying breath, tries to organise his mind so this comes out how he wants it to—comes out making sense. 

“He thought I was faking it, or at least over-exaggerating it for attention.” Dan starts, and Mandy slows down. They’re walking beside each other now, and it settles something inside of Dan that he didn’t even know needed settling. He needs everything to feel equal in life. Her walking ahead, him trailing behind had felt—he doesn’t know. Maybe it’s the star topic for his next therapy session.

“Then I get it, but I would’ve gotten it if you told me weeks ago.” Mandy is his favourite because she doesn’t coddle him, doesn’t wrap him up in cotton wool and try to protect him from the world. That’s what his ex had tried to do, and he hadn’t gotten it when Dan sunk into himself. “I’m your manager, Dan, I need you to tell me the things that impact your career.”

“Right.”

  
  
“And I’m your friend, I want you to tell me the things that are on your mind, want you to let me help you when you feel—whatever way you feel.” She pats his arm mid-walk, and Dan catches her hand. Just a little squeeze, just a little _thank you for somehow knowing I needed to hear that._

“You might regret saying that when you start getting a running monologue of my deepest, darkest thoughts.” Dan laughs, and Mandy just rolls her eyes. 

“I’ve got someone else for you, but this is a proper last chance sort of thing. Word gets around, and the current word is that you’re more hassle than anything else.” Blunt, too. She’s so fucking blunt. It’d taken Dan a while to get used to that, to someone not sugar-coating their every word. Saying things so carefully in order to not hurt Dan’s feelings.

“I dunno.” Dan shrugs. “I think the word is that I’m not some little playdough man people can mould to fucking—I dunno, re-live their glory days. They all want me to serve like them, hit like them, do the same fucking victory dance they did back in nineteen ninety whatever.”

“Yeah, maybe I got that vibe from Eric. I did see him bringing in a pair of his old shorts for you to try on.” Mandy smiles, and it feels normal again. Just them, with nothing in-between. 

Dan often thinks about life without her in it. Would he still even be attempting to play at all? 

“He’s like a full foot shorter than me, I think I’d have got kicked out the tennis club for indecent exposure if I rocked up in a pair of them.” 

“Mhm.” Mandy laughs, a little tinkle of a sound. And he always finds it comforting, that noise, because it’s real, means she’s no longer pissed off. “Would’ve been some very different sort of ball action.” 

“Gross.” 

“Come off it, balls are your favourite.” 

And that’s the other thing, Mandy is in the small circle of people who know he’s gay. Coming out when he already had such a big target on his back felt—huge. It felt overwhelming. A man having a breakdown on the tennis court mid game was one thing, but add gay to that mix and it was suddenly an entirely _different_ thing altogether. The British press weren’t kind, and neither were twitter.

Dan wasn’t going there, not yet. Maybe not ever. 

“Shutup.” Dan says. “Where are we even going?”

Mandy looks surprised by that, like she’d forgotten they were walking somewhere. Like she’d forgotten about asking Dan to follow her. “Oh, yeah. Your new coach is here right now doing something, thought we could meet him. Thought you could get a feel for him before you start official training.”

“Oh.” And now all the light feels heavy again, that familiar weight of dread in his stomach. Meeting new people is terrifying, because there’s always the chance that they could ask about the one day four years ago. Always a chance they could hate him for it. “Who is it?”

“He’s called Phil, he’s nice. Personally a favourite, but I’m biased because he lives in my building and he brings me stuff he bakes. It’s all, like, terrible… don’t get me wrong. But it’s nice, he’s nice.” Mandy turns left, onto a path that leads to a court Dan hadn’t even known existed. It’s secluded, right at the back, surrounded by trees. 

“Phil…?”

“Lester.”

“Oh.” Dan murmurs. “Never heard of him.”

“God, you really do live inside your own arsehole sometimes.” It’s not harsh, but when Dan’s in this mood everything sounds sharper than it actually is. “You’ve been in a few tournaments together.” 

“Oh.” Dan repeats, because’s he distracted now, because the path has ended. Because this court feels more peaceful than anywhere else Dan has ever been. 

Because stood in the middle is this Phil, and all Dan can think about is how he wants to eat him alive. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anddd there we have it.tennis boys.please suspend your disbelief and pretend they are very good at sports x
> 
> as always, lemme know your thoughts! (i'm trying this thing where I be a bit more serious. I alwasy felt this need to be funny every other line -which i probs failed at anyway- and it took away from the serious things I wanted to write and it always felt like nothing was happening apart from... joking around? so this is me trying to find a balance between actual plot and being funny? cos i do be liking talking about complex emotions and love some introspection)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to sierra for beta'ing (but also my deepest apologies to sierra). I know i said monday, but i'm a liar. just expect this fic to be updated at LEAST once a week, maybe sometimes twice :D. 
> 
> rspb = royal society for the protection of birds

He’s younger, close to Dan’s age—if he had to guess. His other coaches have been older, in their late forties or earlier fifties. All five of them had this special way of making Dan feel inferior, even though he was quite literally paying them for their time.

Phil might be different, but Dan can’t decide that based off the fact he’d fuck him if the opportunity ever arose. 

“Well?” Mandy asks. “Are you just going to stare, or are you actually going to go over and say hello?”

“Oh.” Dan realises he’s just been stood on the side-lines, clenching and unclenching his fists in an attempt to calm down. “Sure.”

But he still doesn’t move, right now he feels content to just watch. Despite all the nervous energy about meeting somebody new, Dan feels oddly at ease here. He’s not overly in a rush to ruin that—it’s not something he gets to experience often.

And Phil doesn’t seem overly in a rush either, if you asked Dan he’d say Phil probably didn’t even know they were there. 

“Does he know we’re here? Or—I mean, did you tell him we were coming?” Dan asks.

“Yeah, I let him know about twenty minutes ago.” 

“Does he just come here to, like, stand?” Dan asks, noticing the complete lack of equipment. There’s no tennis racket in his hands, no balls littered around the court. There’s not even a bag laying at the side to suggest he’s here to play, just not started yet. 

“Sometimes.” Mandy says with a little shrug of her left shoulder. “He says there’s something about here that makes him feel relaxed, no one else really ever comes around the corner.” 

“Relatable. Would love a place no one else goes.” Dan laughs, and even that feels too loud. He’s going to ruin it, as he ruins everything else. And he wishes he could dig himself out of that mindset, not think of himself as such a horrible person—but he’s proved himself right so many times. 

“Dan.” 

Dan just grunts out an affirmative, but he’s still—just staring. Phil’s all dressed up for the game, tennis shoes on, sweatbands around his wrist. The white shorts he’s wearing veer on being just a bit too tight, stretch over his arse in a way that’s distracting. Dan wishes he’d made a bit more effort, but how was he supposed to know this moment would exist?

Dan likes comfort, he likes wrapping himself up in a safety blanket made out of black jogging bottoms and a top he’s worn so many times it’s almost threadbare. His trainers are good though, expensive. Maybe that’ll distract from the whole pyjama vibe of everything else going on. He doesn’t want Phil to immediately label him as someone who doesn’t take this seriously, someone who doesn’t care. 

“Dan, I’m going, alright? Got some stuff to sort out.” Mandy gently taps his wrist. “See if you like him, yeah? Text me later.”

“Alright.” Dan says, leaning in to give her a one armed hug because he just—he can’t take his eyes off Phil. 

“See you.”

He hears, rather than sees, her walk away. Then he’s alone. Or rather it’s just him and Phil, and he still hasn’t even turned around to see who’s come to disturb his moment. 

Dan takes a subtle step forward, Phil’s stood so still that Dan thinks anything more than that would spook him. He seems to be in a world of own, stood by the net, fingers gently stroking back and forth over the material. The trees are filled with birds, and Phil seems to be observing them. How they hop along the branches, twigs stored in their beaks to build a nest with. 

It doesn’t seem real here, and Dan’s too loud to exist in such a space. He’s going to ruin it with his mouth, with his penchant for the dramatics. He hates the feeling of people invading his own personal bubble, his own carved out space for himself in the universe, so even being here feels like crossing a line. He wishes Mandy had left it for today, had them meet on more neutral ground. 

It’s too late now, though. Already here. Already in touching distance. Phil still doesn’t turn around. Dan follows his gaze up towards a particular tree, and it’s odd that cherry blossoms are here of all places.

“Hi.” Phil’s the one to speak first, and it makes Dan jump out of his skin. “Do you think that bird knows its baby has fallen out of the tree?”

His voice is deep, but there’s something about it that sounds broken—not quite there. Like once upon a time it was lighter, but now there’s no longer the urge to speak in brightness. It soothes Dan in a way it shouldn’t, in a way that would have anyone else nervous. And it’s simple enough to figure out why, reminds Dan of himself. 

“No—What? Shit.” Dan’s eyes go towards the ground, and Phil’s right. “Do we help? I—we can’t, can we?”

He remembers someone telling him about it at school, how if you touch a baby bird the mother will reject it. And at nine years old he decided that must’ve happened at the hospital, someone else must’ve picked him up out of his crib, that’s why his own mother can hardly look at him. 

“Why can’t we?”

“Because—the smell thing? If it’s touched by humans, she’ll reject it.” 

Phil turns to stare, he has these wide blue eyes, a pinched mouth that tells Dan he’s said something wrong. Despite all that, despite the obvious displeasure written all over Phil’s face, Dan’s heart still loses it—just a bit. 

“No.” Phil shakes his head, black quiff staying perfectly in place. “That’s not actually true, I don’t know why so many people believe that.” 

And Dan wants to choke, because now he has no explanation for why his mum can’t stand him. Illogical or not, the bird reasoning had been _something_ to cling onto. 

“No?” He asks, and it’s barely a no at all. More of a sound. More of a plea to say the opposite. 

“No.” Phil repeats. “You can put it back in the nest, but it’s more to do with if the mum thinks it’s ill, or won’t make it. If she’s already decided that, she’ll throw it straight back out.” 

Dan feels sick. 

“We can call the RSPB, they’ll come and collect it. Feed it. Give it a home until it can fly.” Phil softens, because whatever emotion is written on Dan’s face had been seen, and had apparently been understood “Do you want to do that?”

“Yeah.” Dan answers too quickly. “Please.” 

They tell Phil they’ll come along to assess the situation. To make sure it’s a case of abandonment, rather than just a fledging being too eager to leave home. Dan already knows what it is, the bird is too small to have done this alone. 

“How long do you think?” Dan asks, and he wants to take the bird himself. Place it gently into a shoe box and show it someone on earth loves it, not everything is bad all of the time. He crouches down beside it, on the verge of tears for a reason he doesn’t understand. Or a reason he understands _too_ much. 

“Not sure.” Phil says, then there’s a delicate hand squeezing Dan’s shoulder. “Come on. Come sit over here with me, just in case the parents are too scared of coming down to pick it up whilst us two giants are hanging about.”

-

There’s a bench, but for some reason they both decide against it. They sit on the floor, and Dan’s glad they’re sitting on the concrete as opposed to the grass. He’d get distracted, pick at it until he has a massive clump of green on his lap. Here he’ll just fiddle with loose patches of ground, and if he wrangles some free he’ll spend the next ten minutes trying to perfectly push it back in. 

Either way he’s distracted. 

“I’m Phil, hi.” Phil introduces himself, just a bit late with it. 

“Dan.”

“Yeah.” Phil smiles. “I know.”

That would usually make Dan freeze up, but Phil’s tone lacks the usual venom. He’s so used to everyone knowing him for the entirely wrong reasons, not for the game but for who Dan is as a person, and why who he is is _bad._ He seems to spend his entire life fending off questions about things that have nothing to do with anybody else but him. 

Half of the time he feels tricked, interviews begin with questions about tennis, but it doesn’t take long to veer off into Dan’s personal life. It’s why he’s stopped saying yes to any of them, spends most his time holed up inside his apartment to avoid talking about his lowest point. Mandy says maybe it’ll help people, if they see someone in the spotlight talking about their struggles. But Dan isn’t there yet, doesn’t want to share such a huge part of himself. 

“Then you’ll know I’m in last chance saloon.”

“What are you, a cowboy?” Phil asks. And when Dan looks over at Phil, he’s picking at the ground. 

“Don’t think so.” Dan laughs. “Be awful with a lasso.” 

Phil chucks a piece of concrete at him. 

“Oi!” 

“Was a test.” Phil says, trying too hard not to smile. There’s that tell-tale sign, a small twitch in the corner of Phil’s mouth. “Poor reflexes.”

“I doubt people are going to throw tiny pieces of rock at me on the court, unfair test.” Dan argues, stretching his legs out in front of him. There’s a hole in the material he hadn’t noticed before.

“Unfair or just unconventional?” 

“Is that your coaching style?” Dan asks. “Unconventional?”

They’re sat so close that Dan can feel it against his own shoulder when Phil shrugs. It shouldn’t be as fine as it is, to be sat in the personal space of a stranger. But Dan doesn’t feel the need to move, if anything he leans into it. He doesn’t want to talk about coaching right now, doesn’t want to talk about anything that makes him think about the future. 

Dan changes the subject, and Phil seems more than happy to go along with it. 

“I saved a duck on the way here, you know.” 

“Oh?” Phil asks. “Tennis professional and bird rescuer? What a combination.”

“Are they actually birds?” Dan asks, because he’s suddenly desperate for someone to undo his thought about being stupid.

“Ducks?” Phil asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer. “Yeah birds have wings, ducks have wings.”

“Right.” Dan nods. “Some dinosaurs have wings.”

“Chickens are dinosaurs.”

“Are chickens birds?”

“Yeah.” Phil says. “Chickens are birds.” 

“Cool.” Dan laughs, and he doesn’t really know how to speak today. Feels a bit all over the place, part of him wants to spill a million things but the other wants to stay quiet so he can stay in this place of Phil not disliking him. 

“Oh, they’re deeper in real life.”

“Sorry?” Dan asks, brain entirely fried. 

“The dimples.” Phil explains. “It’s obvious you have them on the tv, but in real life they’re very… a lot.” 

Dan smiles, just to exaggerate them further. Something about the way Phil’s face lights up turns the fake smile into a real one. 

“See!” Phil laughs. “I well wanted dimples when I was a kid. Someone said if you squeezed your cheeks in a certain way they’d, like, appear.”

Dan drops the smile. “And did they?”

“Does it look like it?” Phil raises an eyebrow, or at least he tries to. He doesn’t seem to have much control over his own face right now. 

“No, sorry. Stupid question.” Dan looks away, stares back down at the hole in the material. Everything about him right now feels unfinished. “Did it hurt?”

“Sort of.” Phil shrugs. “It was—I just had the indent of my own fingernail on my cheek for a few days.” 

“I think you can get surgery now.” 

“I don’t want surgery, think i’m over it. I’d probably look weird with them.” 

They fall silent again, and Dan knows he’s not going to leave until he knows the bird is safe. He wonders if Phil will sit with him the entire time, or if he’ll get up and leave. Phil seems like the type to care, seems to know a lot about animals too. He wants to talk to him, to quiz him on everything but his head and mouth don’t seem to be communicating. 

He sticks his finger in the hole and he makes it worse. 

“You’re going to have no trousers left if you keep doing that.” Phil says, bringing Dan out of his own head and to the realisation that he’s ripped enough to reveal his entire knee. 

“Have a sewing kit with you by any chance?” He holds the material together and it hitches the ankle up in the weirdest of ways. “Ankle or knee flash?”

“Hmm.” Phil seems to seriously consider it, gentle taps his fingers against his own chin like that decision really matters. “I’m going to have to go with knee.”

“Why?” 

“Cos I don’t have a sewing kit.” 

“Oh.” And it startles another laugh out of Dan. Maybe this will work, maybe Phil will be the coach who doesn’t drive him further into misery. He’s not started all the talk yet, all the promises of how he’ll mould Dan into Britain’s number one.

He doesn’t fucking want to be number one. He wants to play without all the pressure of winning. And Dan understands that this is a competitive sport, but he wishes it wasn’t quite as intense all the time. This constant ranking system, the way you can so easily fall down the ladder if you fuck up even one game. It’s all too much for him lately, something he once found joy in is becoming something he dreads. 

So maybe this is all unfair, to ask Phil to put in all this time and effort when Dan isn’t even sure he’s going to try. Maybe he should retire from the actual sport, and instead get really passionate about playing it on the Wii instead. 

“Can I make an assumption?” Phil asks.

Dan’s heart stops, just a bit, but he says, “Yes.”

“You’re going to stay here until they come get the bird, right?”

“I—yeah. I can’t just go and not know.” 

“Ok.” Phil smiles. “Then yeah, I want to be your coach.”

-

They sit on the ground for forty-five minutes, they say nothing but they also say a lot. 

Nothing that means anything, just a lot of words that fill the silence. Not that the silence had been awkward at all, just Dan wants to hear what Phil has to say. Figure out what makes him tick. He’s not like anyone Dan has ever encountered before. Phil seems to get bored halfway through his own sentences, change the subject to something completely different. 

Dan—he likes him, despite the way he’d come into this meeting with all his guards up. He’d been expecting another interrogation, another moment of feeling a freak show to people who didn’t _understand_. No ones ever subtle about it, dive in head-first like reliving past trauma is a fun activity for Dan. 

Phil hasn’t asked him about it once, hasn’t even alluded to knowing about it. And it’s such a simple, simple thing. It shouldn’t be such a big deal—human decency. He doesn’t even know if Phil’s that good a person, or if it’s just that everyone is a completely shitty one. 

“You really don’t like cheese? That’s ninety percent of my diet.” 

Phil shakes his head, screws up his nose in obvious displeasure. It’s all very cute. “No, it’s like I’m eating wax.”

“You eaten a candle before?”

“I might’ve tried a little bit of candle before.” Phil admits, and for the first time he looks sheepish about something. 

It makes Dan properly laugh, stomach aching by the time he’s done. But it’s actually—he’d expected it. If anyone on earth were to turn around and admit to eating a candle before, Dan would’ve expected that person to be Phil. 

“What?” Phil demands. 

“Nothing, nothing.” Dan giggles. “That’s just— I’ve only known you for, like, an hour but it seems like a you thing.” 

“Have you never been tempted?’

“No.” Dan says. “I might’ve tried playdough, though.”

Phil looks delighted about it.

“Is that where all your muscles come from?”

“I wouldn’t—,” Dan snorts midway through the sentence, “I wouldn't say I have _all_ the muscles.” 

“Don’t be modest, look at your arms.” Phil reaches out, gives Dan’s bicep a squeeze and Dan doesn’t want to recoil away. “Buff.”

“Buffy.” 

“That’s my favourite show!” Phil doesn’t sound as broken as earlier, but neither does Dan. 

“I—oh, is that them?”

It’s them, obviously it’s them. They’re walking across the court in their official uniform, with a little box to carry the bird away in. Dan thinks they probably already know the situation, don’t have any hope that it’d been accidental.

“Yeah.” Phil pulls himself up to a standing position and holds his hand out to help Dan up. “Should we go say hello?” 

The bird has been abandoned. Dan’s heart breaks. 

“Can we… know?” Dan asks. “I mean, is there any way you can let us know what goes on with him? If he’ll be alright?”

The lady looks at her partner, who looks back at her unsure. But then they both look at Dan’s face, and whatever they see there apparently changes their minds. 

“Give us a sec.”

They come back with a number scribbled down on a card. “That’s a reference for the case. Give us a call and give that number, ok? You’ll be given an update.”

Dan clutches the card to his chest. “Thankyou.” 

They leave with the baby bird in a tiny box. 

“You’ll pass them updates on, yeah? I feel like we just said goodbye to our son.” Phil’s stood beside him, looking just as taken by the entire situation as Dan had been. 

“Yeah, course.”

“I’ll see you here Monday, then?”

“What day is it now?”

“Thursday.”

“Oh.” Dan murmurs, and it seems too long away. He wants to see Phil again before then. “Yeah, Monday is good.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, lemme know your thoughts! 
> 
> [i am over here on tumblr if u wanna say hi :D ](https://fictropes.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi :).

He doesn’t google Phil, doesn’t want to ruin the perception he has of him. Right now Phil is someone who saves birds, and knows who Dan is but doesn’t have all the usual questions.

He let’s Mandy know what’s happening, and she makes him promise to really try this time. He wants to argue back, say it was never him not trying but them _pushing._ His first coach had sold Dan’s story to the press, he woke up one day to an entire article about how he was a brat, had too big of an ego considering the lack of talent. 

It’d raised a million walls, on top of the million he already had. Phil had toppled one, but Dan still felt as guarded as ever. Maybe even more, because trusting someone is harder than not trusting, Dan’s default is wary, it’s keeping everybody at arms length and hoping they don’t ever try to step any closer. 

Mandy is about the only person on earth who knows him inside and out, but even that doesn’t feel one hundred percent secure. He still has this weird feeling that she’ll get sick of him one day, abandon him for someone who knows what they’re doing—who they are. 

He’s dragged out of his own thoughts by a set of paws digging into the fleshy part of his thigh, using him as a jump-board to evil. 

“You don’t— no, stop eating the plant.” He picks up the bonsai, holds it at arms length from the cat who’s determined to kill all the earth's greenery. “You’ll get sick.” 

Luigi just blinks, like he thinks Dan is a complete fool. He’d found him at a local shelter, adopted him due to the complete lack of anything going on behind the eyes. He’d been duped by the _head empty, all I hear is elevator music_ look. Now Lu is here and he knows too much, especially knows Dan wouldn’t give him up in a million years. 

“Gonna behave?” 

He gets an indignant little meow in response, and one final swipe at the tree. 

“Good. Trusting you.” Dan picks him up gently, settles him down on the sofa so he can go into the kitchen without the looming threat of having his ankles licked with every step he takes. 

Dan makes coffee, and he wonders how many other people on earth are doing the exact same. Sometimes he has to remind himself that other people exist in the same moments as he does, that being alone and being lonely are two different things. To be entirely alone, to be the only person in existence, would mean to _always_ be lonely, at least there’s the option of one day not feeling loneliness if there are other people on the planet. Other people outside of these four walls. 

He has to remind himself of that often. As unbearable as hope is, Dan thinks without it he’d crash and burn. Clings onto it like a lifeline, this tiny spark of _maybe someday someone will understand all that I am._

“Oh. Food time, Lu?” 

Luigi has abandoned his prime spot on the sofa and is now on the kitchen side, looking at Dan like he’s the world’s worst father. The glare only falters when he can see Dan opening up the cupboard that contains the fancy stuff. Lu has been good for him, given him a proper reason to get out of bed every morning.

“I know, I know. Gimme a sec, you can’t eat a tin.” Dan laughs. “No, you can’t, baby. Just— oh my god. Impatient.”

Dan is covered in ginger cat fur and he needs to go out, and he needs to see that people still exist before he sinks down to the place of no return. This place is his safe haven, every detail something that makes him feel—comfortable, at home. He’d spent too much money when he first moved in ripping up all the carpets and replacing them with wooden flooring, a soft rug on the floor of every room. 

It’s nothing grand, nothing that cost millions, but it’s enough for Dan. Every room is separate which helps him, makes him feel less constricted and stuck in just one place. He’d viewed so many apartments that were open plan, kitchen and living room one big thing. He hated the lack of options it left him with. Though it’s all the same apartment, he still feels like he's able to go somewhere else if he gets sick of the sight of a certain wall.

He’s found each room serves a different purpose, that he can think differently when he moves between them. The office is his current favourite, somewhere he sits for too long and plays games. One of those rooms that is small, but in a way that’s cozy as opposed to feeling claustrophobic. 

But right now he feels as though he should still get out, moving from the kitchen to the living room just won’t cut it today. He leaves Luigi with his bowl of cat food that costs more than most of his own meals, throws on an outfit that’s not weather appropriate and goes for a walk. 

London is still London, even after spending seventy-two hours inside. The leaves on the trees might be a bit greener, though. Every step might feel a bit easier. He doesn’t want to pin that all on Phil, but it’s been a long time for Dan. Meeting someone and actually getting along with them, actually wanting to see them again.

Their first official session is tomorrow, and Dan knows he’s meant to turn up for tennis, but right now he’s only turning up to see if it’s still there— that feeling of actual human connection. He takes the opportunity now to give the number on the card in his jacket pocket a call, wants to be able to turn up with some good news for Phil. 

“Hello. You’re through to RSPB, how can we help you today?”

“Oh—hi.” Dan fumbles with the paper, nearly drops it right down a drain. He needs this today, to know the bird they tried so hard to rescue is ok. For some reason the bird being ok means Dan will be ok too. “I’m just calling to follow up on something from Thursday. I have a erm—case number? Reference number?” 

“Alrighty, just read it out to me and I’ll see what I can do.” The voice is kind, and Dan can’t think of a reason why it’s making him want to sob in the street. 

He reads out the number carefully, doesn’t want to get into the whole _sorry can you repeat that_ business because he talks too fast. He’s always being told to slow down in interviews, people think he’s rude, that he just wants to get out the room as quickly as possible. But it’s more his brain and mouth work at a disconnect, thoughts too much to keep up with and everything comes out sounding tangled. 

So today he speaks slow, and when the operator has finished typing on their keyboard and comes back with an affirmative, he feels oddly accomplished. One basic task that he didn’t manage to fuck up. 

“Found him, he’s doing well. A real little fighter.” 

“Thanks.” Dan says, and it’s unreal how much better such a simple thing has made him feel. “Thanks so much.”

“No problem.” The voice answers, and Dan thinks they’re Irish. His ex had been Irish, but he needs to stop thinking about Sean because that’s a no go. That’s well and truly over with. “It’ll likely be a case of we let him go when he’s strong enough, so if you give us another call we’ll be able to let you know.”

Dan nods, then remembers he’s on a phone call. “That’s—great, really. Thank you so much, have a nice day.” 

London doesn’t seem as dark when he hangs up the call. And his plan had been to wait and tell Phil tomorrow, wanted to see him smile in person. And maybe he wanted Phil to associate him with good news over anything else. 

**Dan:**

Do you have Phil’s number?

**Mandy:**  
Yeah, I’ll send it over. 

His feet carry him to the coffee shop, and it thankfully looks empty. Sometimes the loudness of the place puts him off, it’s a popular spot and despite his chair always seeming to be empty, it’s still seemingly constantly busy. He gets it, good coffee, friendly staff, comfy seats. But that doesn’t mean he can’t be a little bit selfish, internally cheer when he sees only two other people sat inside. 

Background noise that involves other humans talking is difficult, because Dan’s too good at accidentally eavesdropping. And that’d be fine, if no one knew who he was, but he’s heard too many people talking about him when they thought he was just outside of range. When they thought he wouldn’t be able to hear. But being paranoid has made Dan good at hearing everything he doesn’t _want_ to hear, good at blocking out every other noise and just focusing in on the bad. 

People see him and people see that day. They barely register the fact he’s a tennis player, just can’t wait to turn around to their friend and ask them _if that’s the guy who had a breakdown._ And he is, but that doesn’t define him and he hates how no one one else can see it like that. 

Today it’s empty, though. Today it’s just Dan, a cup of coffee and his place by the fire. And Kev, because Kev is working today and he’d looked a bit too happy when Dan walked in through the door. Stopped what he was doing just to push the other barista, Zoe, out of the way so he could serve Dan. 

Interactions are difficult when Dan doesn’t overly want them, when he’s in his head too much and every word feels like effort. Digging through his brain just to find words, and half the time they're not even the right ones. Kev is cheerful and Dan’s the opposite, the mood plummets the minute Dan opens his mouth. 

He stumbles awkwardly through his order and doesn’t hang around to speak afterwards, just grabs it and runs off to the safety of his corner. Once he’s there, once he feels less likely to explode, he pulls his phone out and uses the number Mandy sent him. 

**Dan:**

Hey, it’s Dan. Just letting you know that our bird is alright

**Phil:**

Oh! Yay. I was thinking about our son, he was so tiny.

**Dan:**

Right? I’m sort of expecting one more bird saving at some point soon. Everything comes in 3’s right? 

**Phil:**

Hope not. Already hurt myself twice today.

**Dan:**

Oh no. What’d you do? Nothing that means you can’t help me hit balls, I hope.

**Phil:**

Hm. I could say something, but i’ll spare u. Just shin on the corner of the coffee table, then an eye stab during contact lens insertion time.

**Dan:**

contact lens insertion time. Interesting way of saying those words, for sure

**Phil:**

Look you don’t understand the struggle, Mr 50/50 vision

**Dan:**

It’s 20/20

**Phil:**  
It’s 2021

**Dan:**

Oh shutup, that was so easy 

Dan looks up from his phone to find Kev stood in front of him, he’s got a shirt on that Dan’s commented on before. Something red with short sleeves, a couple of buttons undone that weren’t when Dan first walked in. He can already tell what’s about to happen, can see it playing out in slow-motion in his brain. It’s going to end badly, no matter how many times Dan replays it. 

“Hi.” 

Dan sits up in the chair he’d been slouched in, because he properly thinks of this place like home even if he shouldn’t. Because when he has to stop coming here it’s going to be—shit. But he’s going to try, at least, to let Kev down gently. Dan slips his phone into his back pocket, intent on giving this conversation his all even if his brain only wants to think about Phil. 

“Help—o. Hello.” And he’s fucked it already. “How much do I owe you?” Dan asks, just because if he keeps talking then maybe Kev will forget he’s a walking disaster. 

“Oh, nothing, don’t worry. On the house.” Kev says, wringing his hands—nervous about _something._

“No, I can’t do that.” Dan smiles, but it’s one of those off-putting ones. “I think I’ve had a hundred on the houses since I started coming here.”

“Yeah, well.” Kev shrugs, and Dan hates that Kev’s cheeks have turned pink. “You’re a special customer, not everyone who comes in here is famous.”

“Don’t think I’m famous either.”

“I’ve seen you on the tv, that counts.”

“I dunno.” Dan laughs. “Think I’ve seen a lot of people on the tv, my mate went on _Who Wants to be a Millionaire_ , but people aren’t chasing her down for an autograph.”

“Stop—you’re so literal.” Kev’s gotten into some sort of groove now, thinks the conversation is going somewhere and Dan has to take stock of what’s happening. Accidentally flirting? Body language too open? Dan crosses his arms over his chest.

“Na, I’m just annoying.” Tone flatter, not suggestive of anything. He doesn’t want this, and maybe he can’t stick around and continue at all. All he does is try to be brave, but it never pans out. 

“No, wouldn’t ever say that. I like how you are.” Kev takes the seat opposite, and that’s when Dan realises it’s another day of bolting. 

He pretends to get a text, stares down at his phone with wide eyes in a way he hopes is at least five percent convincing. “Oh, crap, sorry. Gotta run.”

And he quite literally does, out the door and halfway down the street until he feels like his lungs are going to eject themselves from his chest. Until he trips over his own guilt and nearly ends up flat on his face.

He hates to let people down, to be the reason why someone else's face crumbles. To sit there and tell Kev he’s not interested suddenly felt too much, and all he can hear is his mother telling him he’s a _miserable little boy who brings everyone else down._

He’d never meant to, to pass on his sadness to other people. 

He hadn’t understood himself for a long time, could never work out why everyone else around him always seemed to be doing better and why he couldn’t just be _nicer_. Why the little things, things that wouldn’t affect anyone else, seemed to flatten him.

Dan just thought he was what everyone said he was. Grew up thinking of himself as the bringer of sadness, as someone who no one wanted to be around. He can count on one hand the number of times he was ever invited to another child’s birthday party, to sleepovers, and that was only because the mums of those children took pity on him. 

He’s unlearning all those thoughts, slowly. Realising he’s not built to ruin the lives of those around him. But it’s hard to stop those thoughts when they’d always been so ingrained, when it had been all he’d ever known. And it feels like that again today, stood here catching his breath on the street after running away from a miserable situation _he’d_ created.

His therapist had told him misery created accidentally, misery that is accompanied by a feeling of guilt, didn’t make Dan a bad person. He couldn’t make everyone happy all of the time. He tries to tell himself that now, that saying yes to Kev might make Kev happy, but it wouldn’t make Dan happy. 

He takes a deep breath, realises he’s blocking the entrance to a flower shop and darts out the way. Then he changes his mind and darts in instead, buys himself a bunch because it’s been a while. They’re too big for the vase he’s going to try to fit them in, but the colours make him happy and he thinks he deserves a bit of happiness—or he’s at least trying to convince himself that he does.

Dan’s juggling flowers and a paper coffee cup when his phone goes off, and if Phil didn’t exist he wouldn’t dive for it—but he does. The flowers nearly end up in the middle of the road, but he manages to catch them last minute and tuck them beneath his arm. He’s probably solved his issue of the vase being too small, has a definite feeling he just crushed at least half of them.

**Phil:**

We still good for tomorrow? 

**Dan:**

Yeah :). 

What time? 

**Phil:**

oh, whenever

**Dan:**

just turn up and hope you’re there?

**Phil:**

Haha. you know what I meant, just you give me a time and i’ll appear like a genie

**Dan:**

2am

**Phil:**

i’m firing myself 

**Dan:**

tmi

**Phil:**

Awful. as coach, firing myself as ... that. 10am?

**Dan.**

Awful. fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, lemme know your thouuuughhhhts. also side-note obvs dan mum irl i know nothing about.i just need a backstory bby


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks 2 sierra for the patience this was the messiest thing you've ever seen pre sierra

Dan wakes up, and he doesn’t want to move. Even with the promise of Phil, everything seems like too much effort. His legs are heavy beneath his quilt and his heart is even heavier. It’s going to be a day where everything feels like too much, even if to everyone else it’s very little. 

When he does eventually drag himself out of bed it’s half an hour later than he’d wanted. He had all these ideas about how he was going to make the best second impression anyone has ever made. Do something with the bird’s nest sat on top of his head, wear clothes that don’t have literal holes in them, smile when he’s supposed to smile. But depression doesn't often listen to plans. 

And usually Dan would roll over, would sink back into sleep and wake up feeling worse. But today he doesn’t, and for that he has to congratulate himself. He might be wearing clothes that look like pyjamas, but the fact he’s up and out of the house at all is progress. 

Progress is important, progress is _something._ His therapist often likes to tell Dan Rome wasn’t built in a day, and he’s just coming around to believing the idea. The promises you make to yourself at nighttime, the ones where you tell yourself how tomorrow will be better, you’ll be better. You’ll do everything perfectly, eat right, go for a run, read, be productive. Those promises never work, because those promises are too much. 

Small steady steps towards progress, that’s what Dan vows to live by. So today he simply smiles at himself in the mirror, even if he looks like he’s been in a fight with the wind. Then he tries to flatten his hair, just a bit. 

He’s going to skip out on breakfast, and on coffee, but changes his mind last minute. The last thing he wants to do is spend all day with his stomach rumbling, not be able to do his best because he still feels half asleep. So he makes toast that he cooks a bit too much, but it’s still something. He spends too long stirring a cup of coffee, gets caught up in watching the swirling liquid. 

Dan is going to be late, but he’ll apologise for it. 

He gives Lu a little kiss on the head, and makes sure his water bowl is full before leaving his apartment. The fresh air is welcome, even with all that London grade pollution. Today he doesn’t need to suck on sweets, today he’s remembered his headphones and that’s enough to make him tune out of his own mind.

When he walks by the lake he’s half expecting another bird incident. He’s a believer of everything happening in threes. If he hurts himself once, he’s bound to do it twice more. If he misses one serve, he’ll miss another two. But today the lake is calm and all the ducks are bobbing along happily. Which is upsetting, because one more thing and he was ready to retire and announce himself as the new Dr. Dolittle. 

The other courts are all full, and the sight doesn’t bring on the usual dread. Knowing he hasn’t got to be seen in a crowd today calms him, the seclusion is probably something he’d always needed. Even if they aren’t, Dan feels like everyone else around him is watching. And he’d been correct, a few times, tweets about how shitty his practise had been popping up, a couple of photos of him looking miserable in the back sports section of a newspaper. 

He has no idea why he’s become the demon child of tennis, but it’s a hard thing to shake off. So the seclusion works for him, and Phil works for him too. 

-

Phil’s sat on the ground when Dan gets there, once again foregoing the option of the bench he’s leant up against. He’s got actual stuff with him today, a racket and a tube of tennis balls next to him. And Dan’s being a bit creep, but he thinks he deserves a minute to just stare. 

He’s pretty in a way that’s hurt Dan before. 

“Can see you, lurker.”

It makes Dan jump, makes his cheeks turn pink. He hates being caught out, that feeling of babbling as you try to explain yourself out of a situation. He probably can’t do that today, he was quite obviously staring at Phil. No amount of anything will get him out of that. 

“Hi.” Dan says. “Just making sure you were, like, normal. Not got any weird secrets that mean I can’t have you as my coach.”

“You think I’d be performing all my secrets out here? I’m only _Spider-Man_ in private.” Phil slaps a hand over his mouth, and it makes Dan laugh. “I mean… hi, I’m Phil. Only Phil.” 

“Only Phil.” Dan squats down beside him, notices he was in-fact wrong and these trousers also have the start of a hole in them. He covers it up with his hand, because Phil is really going to start forming a weird opinion of him if he keeps this up. “What’re we doing?” 

“Sitting.” 

“Oh, alright.” Dan plops down on his arse beside him, and the ground is wet enough to seep through the material of his thick joggers. “We going to go through some tennis club rules? First rule of tennis club is nobody talks about tennis club?”

“What?” Phil asks, and Dan can see the side-eye he’s getting.

“You know…” Dan falters. “The movie? _Fight Club_.”

“Dunno.” Phil shrugs. “Watched it just to see Brad Pitt, can’t remember any words.” 

Dan—his heart goes berserk. As it always does. There’s not even really any confirmation in what Phil had said, but a singular hint of gay and Dan starts weighing up all his options. Be quiet, laugh along. drop all his secrets at the feet of someone who is, still, essentially a stranger. 

“Objectify men as a hobby?” Dan asks, and he hopes his need to turn everything funny hasn’t tanked the entire conversation—the entire day.

Phil laughs, and Dan’s never been so fucking grateful for anything. “Oh, yeah, always. If I don’t see some semi-naked men during my cinema time I just start throwing popcorn at the screen.” 

They’re sat closer to the grass today, and Dan’s brain can’t help but make him rip it from the ground. He holds out his hands in offering without even thinking. 

“Grass?” Phil asks, face awash with amusement. “You want me to have it?”

“No.” Dan drops it in his own lap, and now he’s glad he didn’t wear the shorts. “I don’t know why I did that.” 

“I would’ve taken the grass, Dan.”

“You can have it next time.”

“Thanks.” Phil smiles. “Anyway, suppose I best—er, teach you.”

Dan shrugs, because honestly he’s quite happy sat here. It feels odd to be able to breathe easily around someone, to not second guess every single word. But he is paying for someone to teach him how to hit a ball really good, and really hard. He doesn’t know if Phil is the right person for it, never ever heard of him prior to this little arrangement. 

“Yup.” Dan slaps his own thighs as a motivator to stand, but he still finds himself glued to the floor. 

“Wait.” Phil turns, rummages through the too colourful bag to his right. “I need you to just fill out this little questionnaire for me, before we start.”

“The last question gonna be if I wanna die, and if yes how much on a scale of one to ten?” Dan laughs, but he shuts his mouth when he realises exactly what he’d just said. As blasé as he can be about his own depression, it’s probably not something to discuss in a, what’s meant to be, professional setting—professional relationship.

But Phil, Phil just laughs. “Not your therapist. Never a fun question, is it? And weird that they sort of just go oh, cool, thanks for telling me you want to be dead the most. ”

“You… therapy?”

“Use your words, Dan.” Phil smiles as he prods and pokes at Dan with his little black clipboard, only stopping when Dan reaches out to snatch it away. There’s a pen securely tucked into the metal at the top, and it unfortunately says _I love balls._

He ignores the pen, for now. Focused on the whole therapy thing, how maybe this will be the one coach who doesn’t think he’s a whiny millennial who’s making up dramatic crying scenes in the shower to later perform on the court.

“Sorry.” Dan clears his throat, tries again. “You go to therapy?”

Phil nods his head, but he doesn’t exactly elaborate. And that’s fine, Dan gets it. Everything is hard to talk about, and everything inside your own brain only ever seems to make sense to yourself. Therapy helps, but sometimes Dan still feels like everything he’s saying isn’t making sense, because words sometimes just can’t describe a feeling. Can’t describe something that can, at times, feel so abstract. 

He clings to words like a lifeline, thinks maybe if he uses them well enough everyone on earth will understand. But words get taken, and words get _twisted_. He’s learnt to keep his mouth shut now, that most people are more invested in the drama rather than in knowing the real story. But the lack of talking is now being used as something to prove Dan is rude. He can’t win, and he’s given up trying. 

“Same.” Dan says, a beat too late. 

“Nice.” Phil smiles, and Dan swears he goes to put his two thumbs up—thinks better of it at the last second. “Maybe we should go together.”

“Oh?” Dan laughs, pulling the pen out from the metal so he can start filling in his little form. “Like buy one get one free? A two for one deal on brains.” 

“We might share multiple brain cells.” Phil shrugs, trying to fight the smile forcing its way onto his lips. “Only one way to find out.” 

“Yeah—oh, shit, also… sorry about being late.” Dan wanted to do that first thing, but he’d gotten so caught up in Phil he’d entirely forgotten. “Just had a morning.”

“It’s cool, just text me and let me know next time.” Phil suggests, then seemingly tunes out of the whole conversation. He’s leant back up against the bench so much he almost looks part of it, his eyes are shut and he's giving Dan absolutely nothing. Which is probably all a hint for _shut up and do the questionnaire._

The questions are… interesting. Not the usual sort Dan would expect, nothing in particular about his style of play but more veered towards the type of person he is. Every time his pen pauses for a second too long Phil cracks one eye open. It almost feels like he’s in court, being cross-examined by a sleeping barrister.

“What one are you stuck on?” Phil asks, and it makes Dan jump out of his skin. 

“God.” He gasps. “Be asleep or be awake.”

“I’ve always been awake.” Phil pulls himself up to less of slouch, peeks at the paper in Dan’s lap. “Oh, why do you play tennis?”

“I thought this would just be, like, are you left or right handed. Not something so philosophical,” Dan says, because he really has no clue how to answer that, not had a clue for a while. Maybe he still plays because it’s the only thing he knows, because there are still a few sponsors he’s clinging onto that help him pay his mortgage.

“You can come back to that one, if you want.” 

“Please.” Dan flips the page, and is glad to see it’s all a bit more normal. Diving into your own psyche so early in the morning is a dangerous game, especially with how Dan is already feeling. “Why do I need you?”

“Yeah, why do you need a coach? Not me specifically.”

“Cos I’m shit?” 

“You’re not shit.” Phil replies, not even pausing to think. It makes Dan feel a bit of something, maybe puts a bit of wind in his sails. “I’ve watched all your games back, or the ones I could find.”

“Fun time for you, I’m sure.” And now Dan wants to go back to the questions, because the thought of Phil watching anything he’s ever done is mortifying. “I need you because sometimes it _feels_ like I’m procrastinating hitting the ball? Like I see it coming towards me and I go... oh, I’ll hit that in a minute.” 

“That’s not how you play tennis.”

“No.” Dan laughs. “So I’ve been told.” 

“I think…” Phil trails off, and this time he actually sits up on the bench which means something important is probably about to come out of his mouth, “I think you overthink everything you’re doing. You rarely go with the flow, and that results in late movement. Means you miss the ball because you’re too busy thinking about how you’re going to hit it.” 

“Maybe.” 

“And then you overthink that.”

“It’s hard not to.” Dan sighs. “Because every time you miss it you think about how you’ve lost a point, and that point could be the point that loses you the whole game.”

“The game isn’t just made up of one point though.” Phil places a gentle hand on Dan’s left shoulder, gives it a little squeeze. There’s no reason for it, so Dan lets himself think that Phil simply wants to _touch._ “You need to start thinking about the game as one whole thing, as opposed to a bunch of little things.”

And Phil’s right, seemingly understands his style of play in five minutes whereas a coach he’d had for five months didn’t even get that Dan was truly left handed. He’s a catastrophiser to the highest degree, refuses to see the bigger picture because he refuses to allow himself to hope. Believing in the worst means that when the worst predictably happens, it won’t feel as bad, apart from it always actually feels fucking awful. 

“Can you teach me how to do that?” Dan asks. “I thought your job was just to help me hit very hard and very fast.”

“Professional terms?”

“Yeah.” Dan smiles. “Very hard and very fast hit is, like, the ultimate tennis move. I heard it in a dream.” 

“Shutup.” Phil laughs, and now his hand is digging into Dan’s shoulder in a way that’s not tender but instead verging on being evil. “Get up. Go show me what you can do.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, lemme know your thoughts! :3
> 
> next chapter they will actually be doing tennis in the tennis au.... wowwee.

**Author's Note:**

> anddd there we have it.tennis boys.please suspend your disbelief and pretend they are very good at sports x
> 
> as always, lemme know your thoughts! (i'm trying this thing where I be a bit more serious. I alwasy felt this need to be funny every other line -which i probs failed at anyway- and it took away from the serious things I wanted to write and it always felt like nothing was happening apart from... joking around? so this is me trying to find a balance between actual plot and being funny? cos i do be liking talking about complex emotions and love some introspection)


End file.
